But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit, sin’ auld lang syne

New Haven. Spring 1995. Room 123 in the Kline Geology Lab. Reknowned professor Elisabeth Vrba lectures on Paleontology and Evolutionary Theory. I doze fitfully near the back of the darkened hall.

I trudged dutifully across campus for nearly every lecture, I listened, fascinated, scribbling notes with frantic intent. Yet inevitably within 15 minutes my eyelids would sag, my writing would become unintelligible as my pen left a series of parallel marks trailing off from half-formed words. I would shift in my seat and struggle to pay attention, fighting with all my willpower to remain aware and focussed, pinching my cheeks, tapping my foot, leaning forward. I'd guiltily calculate the tuition dollars that were uselessly dissolving away with my glazing vision and shot at an A. But it was hopeless.

The lecture would melt into the elaborate and ridiculous dreams from the grey area at the edge of oblivion, where tusked antelope roamed across my subconscious with herds of 3-toed horses who'd tell me of the wrinkled peas plucked by the titanothere which awaited me in Gould's rose garden while Mendel wrestled Lamarck amidst the precambrian muds. And in what seemed like mere moments, the lights would brighten, the reading assignments were being handed out, and I would close my notebook, rubbing my eyes and wondering what had just happened.

And so it was with 2006. I have just emerged from a dreamworld wormhole where the many things that have happened seem as though they may have not occured at all but for within the torporific haze of daydream. The lights are raised, people are collecting their things, 2007 has arrived, and my 2006 is littering the alley, scattering before the breeze.

So, here's to being enrolled in a new year. May the best of last year be the worst of the new; may it capture our attention, engage our imagination, thrill us, teach us; may it proceed at a comfortable pace; and may it be memorable beyond compare.

Oh, and...

Happy Birthday, Ms. Adams, Proph Prof Broc Doc!
Welcome to your early mid-thirties!

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we

I've been listening to Christmas carols all day today and waxing nostalgic. I usually don't get too wrapped up in the holidays because I'm not religious and I go all humbuggery at the commercial buy-a-thon. Christmas sort of melted into the distance with the geographical miles between me and my family, and it's hard to conjure the spirit of the season when in the shadow of palm trees.

But this year was a little different for whatever reason. I actually enjoyed being out in the shoptastic masses, grinned at the whiff of woodsmoke on the cold breeze, and reveled in the unusual frosty air (well, low 40's, but still). And talking to the family back home several times over the past week and hearing about the crazy blizzard and snow drifts and treacherous driving and shoveling and the nephews home from school and hoping for Santa to bring them an air hockey table -- well, it made me miss home and the holidays of my youth.

And I'd forgotten how much I love Christmas carols. Seriously. Even the religious ones. They're all tied up with tangled ribbons of bygone Sunday school pageants, church ritual, family gatherings and gift unwrappings, tree decorating, grandma's house, stocking stuffers and twinkling lights of warmth and peace. The First Noel, We Three Kings, and O Holy Night can totally make me a weepy mess.

The greatest of all, though (not counting "What Do You Get a Wookie For Christmas When He Already Owns a Comb" from the Christmas in the Stars: Star Wars Christmas Album which I'm praying Dad still has on vinyl in his basement somewhere because that thing has got to be worth some money), will forever be John Denver and the Muppets, singing directly to me.

The season is upon us now,
a time for gifts and giving.
And as the year draws to its close,
I think about my living.
Christmas time when I was young,
the magic and the wonder.
But colors dull and candles dim
and dark my standing under.

Oh, little angel, shining light,
you’ve set my soul to dreaming.
You’ve given back my joy in life,
you filled me with new meaning.

A savior King was born that day,
a baby just like you.
And as the Magi came with gifts,
I come with my gift too.
That peace on earth fills up your time
and brotherhood surrounds you,
That you may know the warmth of love
and wrap it all around you.

It’s just a wish, a dream I’m told
from days when I was young,
Merry Christmas little Zachary, Merry Christmas everyone.
Merry Christmas little Zachary, Merry Christmas everyone.

I feel the Earth. Move. Under my feet

Huh. For a while this week I was relieved I was not trying to travel home for Christmas what with the 3-day closure of DIA, the thousands of strandings, and the tales of my family digging out from the Holiday Blizzard of '06. But now I'm not so sure...

This morning brought with it the third (third!) earthquake in less than 4 days. Yes, they've all been small -- minor really. But they've still made my apartment creak and shudder, rattling my shelves, windows and nerves. And weirdly, they've all been centered in the same spot on the Hayward Fault, directly beneath Berkeley on the other side of the Bay, maybe 12 miles away as the crow flies.

First was Wednesday evening just as we were leaving work. Then last night as I was sitting in my living room playing Guitar Hero -- until the couch abruptly lurched, that is. And now again this morning as I lounged in bed reading. Two 3.7s and a 3.5.

Are these little readjustments that are relieving some pressure along the fault and therefore decreasing the liklihood of a larger earthquake, or are they preliminary foreshocks, as it were, adding to the mounting strain and increasing the odds for the Big One? An occasional tremblor is interesting enough and to be expected in these parts, but given that I've just felt more in 63 hours than I had in the preceding two years, well, it makes one wonder. The Christmas Quake of '06 has a certain headline papery inevitability to it.

In any case, I'm getting dressed and going to replenish my water and canned-goods supply.

What a way to make a living

I'm not going to say a whole lot about work here because I suspect there are some folks from my office who have happened upon my blogosphere coordinates. Not that that's a problem, really, but it does force me to be clear which side of the line I'm on between non-specific venting and disparaging commentary. Because the latter is what has gotten some people into trouble in the past. Such as my roommate. Ostensibly.

Anyway, for the record, this is the former: general griping that we all do about our jobs because we'd frankly rather win the lotto and be sipping mimosas aboard our yacht on the way to Santorini than slugging grande non-fat no-whip mocha lattes while slumped over a keyboard.

It's been a long week, for a short week (we get Friday off! Hooray!). Because schedule was the primary driving factor over quality on a particular Dilbertesque project (into which I was thrust at the tail end with very little familiarity), we rolled into production some new software and systems this week - right before the holidays when everyone's gone and when it'd be very difficult to recover from potential problems. But whatever. The upshot was that I was at work until 3am this morning, and back at the office at 10am. And I'm tired.

I'm not sure what my point here was. I've gotten carried away thinking of sailing around the Mediterranean. Must remember to buy a lottery ticket tomorrow...

Pay it backward

I was at IKEA this weekend, which isn't terribly interesting in and of itself. Nor was the drive (in a City Carshare car) there or home. I don't often drive across the Bay Bridge to the East Bay, and today coming home was a good reminder why: the traffic at the toll booths! Ugh!

I also screwed up which lane to get in and had to cut over sort of late in the game, cutting off a lot of schlubs who'd already been in stop and go for a half mile. I felt really bad about it and was thrilled that a car paused to let me in -- not something I'm likely to have done were I in the other lane. So the karmic guilt kicked in and I suddenly decided I needed to do something nice in return.

Fortunately the opportunity was right there. I glanced in the rearview a few times and an unremarkable middle-aged couple in the pickup that let me in was still behind me. So I paid their bridge toll. It was only $3, but I was surprised how good it made me feel. And, though I sort of hoped it would be regarded as a mysterious random act of holiday season kindness, they swerved dangerously through traffic to catch up to me on the Bridge and wave and smile their frantic appreciation.

Too bad there's not a good reward system for thoughtful drivers -- it might reduce the number of jerkweeds on the road. But yay! Not everyone out there is a maniac.

Miracle on Lombard Street

I happened to look at my Driver's License a few weeks ago (it's surprising how rarely that happens for something I have on me at all times) and had a sudden panic attack -- it was set to expire on my birthday in January. Now, clearly that's a ways in the future but my horror didn't stem from the deadline so much as the realization I was going to have to deal with the DMV.

Oh that universally-hated level of hell that is the DMV, with its interminable queues, ESL-speaking clerks, and frustrations galore. I have painful memories of getting my CA license the first time when my WY one finally expired. It was 2001, I think -- at least that's what my old license says. There aren't too many Wyoming driver's licenses in the world, and I was disinclined to give up mine, though even I am a little surprised I was here for 4 1/2 years before giving in.

So at the DMV, due to a weird California rule requiring you to get a CA license within 10 days of moving here or getting a job, I had to lie first of all, and I'm a terrible liar. Thankfully I did not have to take the driving test back then, and I passed the written exam relatively easily. But there was also the issue of establishing my citizen status, since apparently a license from another state is not adequate, and my expired passport still had a photo of me as a 1st grader. Try explaining to a Russian woman that I'm really a US citizen despite my birth certificate being written in German, and that, since it wasn't stated anywhere that the State Department papers explaining this had to notorized or original, the copy I had ought to suffice because otherwise it'd be months before I could get an official copy through normal channels.

Anyhoodle, I didn't relish the thought of dealing with that place in any way, so I immediately went to the internet to figure out how to renew online or via mail. Frustratingly, it said I could renew online but only after they'd sent me an official registration number. But I could not request this number nor would they explain when it might be sent if it was to come at all.

Low and behold, last Monday my number arrived in the mail all on its own, so online I went. The process was as easy as confirming my address, entering the number, verifying nothing about my record, eyesight or medical history had changed, and hitting 'submit'. It made no claims about when my new license would arrive, leaving me to imagine the worst. And that was that.

I shit you not, my new license arrived today. Four days later! I'm stunned. Shocked. Awed, even. When doing it originally, it took over a month to arrive.

Also, it's good until frickin' 2012. !!! I mean, I've seen dates past 2009 in print before, but it all seems so far in the distant future as to not concern me much -- Arctic ice gone by 2040, people on the moon in 2020, Bay Bridge complete in 2013. Whatev. But shit, I'll have this same piece of plastic in 2012! 5 years doesn't seem like a long time, but damn does 2012 seem like forever from now. Yet it's not - it's right around the corner. Right there, in print, on my freshly-renewed pain-free driver's license.

Darlin' it's better down where it's wetter

Welp, it's that time of year again. The company holiday party was Friday night, so I dug out the suit and a fancy tie and joined in the milling about with a napkin of food in one hand and a weak drink in the other.

This year's shindig, like last year's, was only a few blocks from my apartment, which I always appreciate when it's time to stumble home. But unlike last year, I did not throw a pre-party get-together since my apartment's a mess and I've been knocked out the past two weeks by the plague that everyone seems to have (cough, wheeze). I'm feeling somewhat better, though, thanks for asking.

Anyway, this year's party was at the aquarium down at Pier 39 on Fisherman's Wharf, which was pretty interesting. It pales in comparison to Monterey's aquarium (obviously), but was a fun place to hold a party, what with the drinking while sharks swim overhead, the dessert tray nearly falling into the ray petting tank, and such. I'll admit it was a little weird, however, to be staring at the crustacean tank while chowing down on crabcakes.

Also, the rainy season has kicked into high gear, so despite the ginormous umbrella, by the time we finally found the proper entrance, we basically looked as though we'd been in one of the exhibits.

The thing is, this was my 9th office holiday party. Ok, actually I missed 3 in there for various reasons, so it was really only the 6th that I attended, but still. The last 3 years I've had a suicide pact of sorts with a coworker who has been along the entire ride with me, where we both committed to not being around come the next party, or else. This year he finally ditched the party, if not the company, so I'm still alive. But I'm telling y'all this right now - if this time next year I even have the option of attending the same company's soirée, kill me. Just shoot me in the head, dead.

Ticking away the moments

I've reached a milestone today and I'm not sure what to do about it. Do I celebrate or quietly weep?

You see, as of today, I have been drawing breath for 12,000 days, no shit. The sun is sinking on my 12,000th day in this existence, and what have I got to show for it? Well, I'm sitting on my bed trying to decide if I should finally shower today or if maybe a nap is the best way to put off doing my laundry.

Dude. 12,000 is a lot of days. Seriously.